


Eyes of Amber-honey

by cat_salad



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Hurt Stiles, M/M, Multi, Panic Attack, Wolf Senses, alpha pack, originally on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-11
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 21:58:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/590086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cat_salad/pseuds/cat_salad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe it's the fact that Stiles would rather die than sell him out that makes all 'don't trust anyone's and 'never get close's disappear, and that he cups Stiles' head gently, so gently, and he slants a lazy kiss on top of his mouth and rips the rest of the bandages and ropes and duct tape from his body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eyes of Amber-honey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saucery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/gifts).



> **EDIT: 17/12/12** Taken away some of the italics because people have complained.

In Derek's lifetime-- twenty-five years of it-- he's grown up, matured, come to conclusions, made difficult and easy choices, and realised many things, -- as is the way of life.  
  
But at age sixteen he'd learnt to _never trust anyone_ again, and to _not let anyone close_. He's hurt and reeling back from shock, like the explosions erupting in his house, his life is razed to the ground, like his house, he's _alone_ , like the ghosts in his house. And Kate--   
  
_Kate_ \-- is gone, like his _family_.  
  
He vows to _never fall for someone_ , with silly and unnecessary emotions running through his brain like _love_ , and attraction. The Hale house stands tall and naked and burnt black as a memory of what happened that last time he fell in ~~love~~ , _trusted_ somebody with his heart, --felt so safe with them that he'd give his first to them.  
  
His _virginity_ to a **_slut_**.

* * *

At age twenty-five he wakes up and realises that _Laura_ is _gone_.  
  
Another part breaks inside.  
  
This time he learns to _never let his family out of his sight_ , and to _follow_ them, and to **_protect_ ** them.  
  
So he returns to Beacon Hills with a heavy heart and a misplaced soul, and visits uncle Peter. And he _stays_ , and he gets his act together and becomes the _best_ goddamn nephew and takes _care_ of him, because he's sworn it on Laura's empty grave behind the corner of the house.  
  
One day he's searching the woods for Laura's _other_ \-- oh, _Laura_ \-- and he's annoyed to find two pubescent teenagers lurking about in the underbush.  
  
"It's private property," he growls at them, because the words _never let them close_ , and _don't trust anyone_ float over his heart like a shield.  
  
The second kid-- a stocky, skinny thing with way too many moles and freckles over his face to be part of the In-crowd, hastily jumps into a story that's way too detailed to be true, waving his arms all over the place.  
  
He gets the point though, and shimmies the inhaler he found last night, hidden between the leaves, out of his pocket and throws it for the first kid to catch. Derek turns to leave, because he's pissed off and he's been programmed to leave whenever the air smells too much like teenage hormones on a rampant road rage. (Because the room had smelt like _sex_ and _lust_ and _happiness_ and cum when he'd been with Kate, and it's a smell he doesn't want to remember.) But apparently, the second kid isn't done with him just yet.  
  
"Hey!" he says, and Derek is surprised to feel a pull near his navel, and turns grumpily to glare at the kid.  
  
"Thanks," he says, and the kid's face changes. His brown eyes shine with warmth and gratefulness, as if they're turning a honey amber colour, and the grin he sports is just about ready to split his face in half, with his rosy cheeks puffed up and his mouth. God, that _mouth_. Smiling so innocently at Derek, like a lamb is seeking out the protection of a savage, blood-drenched wolf. _Pulling_ him in, like a lone bullet that managed, for just one second, to reach past all of those walls and just touch -- _featherlight_ \-- him where it hurt most, soothing things over.  
  
Before Derek can do anything truly stupid and regretful-- like pulling him close and sniffing his scent-- a mixture of mint gum and warm showers and wet forest, he turns around and storms off, with the intention to remember that feeling of _warmth_ and _happiness_ as he jacks off in the shower.  
  
He finds out that the kid is called Stiles. Stiles. Seriously, what deprived background did he have to come from that his parents would call him Stiles?  
  
So every time he pictures Stiles he adds things like, _idiot_ , and _smartass_ , and _human_ to his list, and then stamps a bold _don't trust anyone_ and _don't let anyone get close_ over all his tattered feelings.  
  
And before he knows it he's shoulder's deep in their shitty problems. Because he's helping a clueless Scott through his wolf stages, and his throes and pains and his endless pining after a fucking Hunter girl, and he's asking Stiles for help (and since when did that happen that he was stupid enough to come so close to Derek, because it's inevitable that he'll hurt him badly one day, and Derek will not be able to cope with the betrayed look on Stiles' face when it does happen.) And he's blaming it all on stupid hormonal teenagers and their pretty smiles and their honey-amber eyes.  
  
And in the _pool_ \-- he learns to _trust_ Stiles, to some extent. But it's still trust and it's feeble and tiny and warm and it makes Derek feel good and bad at the same time.  
  
And Derek can't decide whether he should be more surprised that he has a tiny niggling slot open for trust and Stiles and _Pack_ , or that Stiles isn't _scared_ of him any more. That he can just glare _right_ _back_ at Derek when he's blown a fuse and his wolf-impulses make him grab Stiles and slam him into the nearest available surface. That Stiles, even if he is human, like some newborn foal, all vulnerable and unprotected without it's mother anywhere nearby, with ungraceful limbs and a runaway mouth, can still _trust_ Derek, a foul-mouthed, unsociable, aggressive _monster_.  
  


* * *

At age twenty-six Derek learns to _be more open_ , and _**trust** your Pack_.  
  
And he's trying-- he really is, and he's making progress because Isaac doesn't have that haunted look in his eyes anymore, and Erica can actually speak normally, without her shield of crazy manic lust and bouncy straw-yellow curls, and Boyd asks him for advice every now and again. Jackson is still and asshole but he's not actively making jabs at everyone, and Scott's warming up to the idea of being his Head Beta, and Stiles--  
  
Stiles is **_gone_ ** one day and it's left Derek feeling like a lost pup in a place that's too big and has too many scents for him to grasp anything properly.  
  
And it makes him go absolutely _feral_.  
  
And his pack don't like the look in his eyes, but they still follow him, edging behind, his anger and hurt and his need to protect the Pack running through their bonds. And it's Jackson that sees the stamp on the window of Stiles' bedroom before they can smell the lingering scents of paint and wolves and warm showers-- the stamp of the Alpha Pack.  
  
It's another three hours before Derek pinpoints the smells of _Stiles_ and _enemy_ in an abandoned warehouse forty miles outside of Beacon Hills.  
  
And before anyone can stop him, he gets out of Boyd's mini-van (a gift he helped pay for) and roars. And it's full of _anger_ and _hate_ and _don't touch my Pack_ and, _**protect**_.  
  
And in between the confusion of roars and howls and whines and crazed hissing, with claws and glowing eyes and pearly white teeth-- Derek finds Stiles. (But he's been fighting off werewolf after werewolf, and he's goddamn glad that he'd drilled his pack into the ground during training, and that they're all going to be very fucking apologetic to him when this is all over--)  
  
He's tied to a chair and gagged, but it's not that that angers Derek the most, it's-- his heart is beating like a wild rabbit, and there's rattling, _wheezing_ breaths coming from Stiles, like his ribcage is about to burst open, -- he's petrified.  
  
It's the bruising-- where red redness of his right jaw meets his cheek and then his neck, and there are faint, teasing, _tantalising_ scratches there, meant to scare the shit out of Stiles. And there's a rough patch on his red hoodie and all over his jeans where there's darkened blood (Derek nearly has an aneurism when he thinks it might be Stiles' body rejecting a Bite) and claw marks, and the side of his head is bleeding, probably where he'd been knocked out, and --  
  
 _His eyes._  
  
He's biting the gag, and he's leant forward, and his eyes are just swimming pools of dewy tears and pain and Stiles is scared for his life, and that's something that he's never been around Derek.  
  
" _Stiles_ ," he says, and pulls the gag down, and his mouth is an abused and angry red, a split lip and Derek can't stop staring. Stiles murmurs something at him, but Derek's too busy ripping off the ropes, too busy ignoring him, that he can't make out what he's saying. Stiles' legs are tied to the chair, too, and Derek fits snugly between Stiles' thighs, and promptly pretends that he didn't think anything of it.  
  
"Derek," Stiles groans, and he says it so softly, lips chapped and bloodied and _so red_ , that Derek _has to_ lean in closer.  
  
And Derek's not coping so well either at the moment, --his claws hurting so badly, and his head throbbing and everything is tinted red and he can see the scent trails in the room, and the chemicals filling his nose are making him dizzy and the urge to shift is so strong that his fangs are grinding against each other like they'd rather chew something _else_ \-- so he takes a moment to really lean in and _sniff_ Stiles' scent; of warm showers and cotton fabric and the iron in his blood.  
  
He feels soft lips, so soft and abused and chapped and bloody, press against his face. And Derek's so confused that he doesn't realise that it's a kiss before Stiles pulls away (as much as "away" is when your personal space consists of two inches of breathing room).  
  
"Thanks for getting me," Stiles whispers, voice coarse and ragged and abused, as if he'd been screaming and pleading all afternoon. Derek whines, because Stiles should not be thanking him, he should be complaining about personal space and sourwolves and bad-mouthing Jackson and pining over Lydia Martin, not, . . .  
  
"They wanted to know-- . . . _stuff_ ," Stiles says, leaving out everything and nothing and being too conspicuous for his own good. "But I trust you," he adds, and his eyes are dark and shadowed with fear and pain, but Derek can see the swirling pools of joyful amber and melted honey underneath.  
  
Maybe it's the fact that Stiles would rather die than sell him out that makes all _don't trust anyone_ s and _never get close_ s disappear, and that he cups Stiles' head gently, so gently, and that he slants a lazy kiss on top of his mouth and rips the rest of the bandages and ropes and duct tape from his body.  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> sorry if there are any problems with the italics, ... un-beta'd.  
> 


End file.
